


Do You Believe in the Causes You're Fighting For

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of battles and skirmishes and good old fashioned brawls Leon starts to notice something off about Percival's behavior.   Can he figure out what's wrong with his friend before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Believe in the Causes You're Fighting For

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the merlin_writers LJ community Merlin Daisy Chain - my 'link' in the chain was Leon/Percival. It's a Post-series story and it does contain a few oblique references to possible Leon/Gwen and definite Arthur/Merlin. Last-minute (hastily) beta'd (so feedback/concrit is definitely welcome). Title is taken from the lyrics to the Robotech song 'Lonely Soldier Boy'.

There’s a sword swinging towards Leon’s head.

It’s cutting through the air in a blurring arc of silver.  His own sword is still buried in the chest of a man who just died on it, so parrying is out of the question and he knows he’s not going to be able bring his shield across his body in time to deflect. 

There’s a moment, briefer than an eye-blink, or half a heart-beat, when he’s actually okay with that.

Fortunately the moment passes quicker than the sword, and while he may not be able to get his shield arm up to block, that doesn’t stop him from being able to duck.   He feels the air of the passing blade sweep close enough to rustle through his hair as he goes to a knee and he _finally_ brings the shield around to protect against the next strike that’s sure to follow on the heels of the first.

The clatter of sword on steel reverberates through his arm, the impact jarring both his body and his hearing for a moment. He shakes it off and thrusts upwards, using his whole body to push the shield forward, into his attacker. 

It’s kind of a stupid move, because while it throws the man trying to kill him back a few paces, it also throws his own balance to shit.  By the time he gets his feet back under him enough for any kind of leverage and manages to yank his sword free of the corpse the bandit is recovered and slashing at him again.  But at least they’re meeting on even terms once more.  His sword is free and Leon uses it like an extension of his own arm.

They trade a few blows, his opponent slightly more tentative now that Leon’s got his sword up and is grinning through a red mask (the blood smearing his face is some of his own - a small scalp wound that bleeds like anything - and some a previous opponent – spray from a particularly nasty gash to the neck).  Leon gets the measure of the man quickly. He parries a clumsy strike, manages to take advantage of that enough to catch the bandit in the lower ribs – below the patchwork mail and leather vest –with the tip of his own blade and then tries to wrench his opponent’s sword loose when their blades slide together and tangle at the crosspieces.

Which is, of course, when he spies the pair of bandits rushing him on the edge of his periphery.   Now he knows he’s fucked, because the men are charging in from his right and his right arm, his sword arm, is still locked with the first combatant. He won’t be able to bring his shield around from his left in any kind of time to block.  

He’s already made the decision that he’s going to at least take another of these bastards out before he dies and he’s about to rear back –leaving himself wide open - to drive the point of his sword through the first man’s chest when a bellowing roar sounds nearby.

Leon knows that roar. Is grateful to hear it.  It lifts his spirits and he puts all his faith in it.  The men charging him from the right quarter are forgotten, and Leon’s grin – if anything – grows wilder, feral, as he uses this new surge of confidence to knock his opponent’s sword arm up and away.  He follows that with an elbow to the face that sends the man staggering, blood gouting from the pulp of his nose.  Leon steps back then, throws his shield to the ground and brings his sword up in both hands.

The bandit attempts, weakly, to counter Leon’s heaving, two-handed down-swing, but the momentum of it merely knocks his weapon aside and Leon lets the follow-through cleave the man from shoulder to hip.  This time he yanks his blade free of the body _before_ it topples in a lifeless heap to the ground and he lets out a triumphant shout. 

He doesn’t really have time for gloating though, because that bestial, primal sound – still growling out like a bear or some other wild creature - is _Percival_ , and Leon doesn’t even have to look to know that Percival has intercepted the men who were about to kill him.   He debates – for another of those less than a heart-beat moments – grabbing up his shield again and decides it’s not worth the effort, then turns to aid Percival.

Who is… oh hell…, _unarmed_ and has one hand wrapped tight around a bandit’s throat, holding him up in the air. The man’s feet are dangling almost a foot’s span above the leaf litter and he’s clawing at Percival’s forearm desperately while his face purples. 

The second bandit?

Leon’s glance darts about anxiously until he spots the man… or what’s left of him, in a messy pile at Percival’s feet.   He doesn’t give himself leave to relax though, at least not until he’s spun around and taken in the rest of the clearing.   There are at least a dozen bodies– two in Camelot red, much to Leon’s dismay – but none moving any longer.  They’ve eliminated the threat.  

“Percival!” Leon calls.  He almost doesn’t have the breath to shout, but he puts as much authority in his voice as he can muster.

Ignoring him, Percival just lifts the bandit higher, the muscles of his arm bulging and rippling with the effort.  Leon has no idea how Percival can hold the man off the ground like that and find enough strength to squeeze his fingers around the man’s throat. Although, he learned a long time ago that Percival is even stronger than he looks (which considering just _how_ he looks, is damn intimidating). 

“Percival,” Leon says again, softer this time. Gentling him as he would a spooked stallion. “Just finish him. We’re done here.”

Where authority didn’t break through, the softness does. “Right.” Percival says with a nod and there’s an indistinct, but sudden movement in the cords of his forearm. The man dangling from Percival’s arm jerks, shudders spastically for a few long moments and then goes limp.  Percival lets him drop.

Stepping over the bodies, not even giving them a second glance, Percival walks over to him and looks at Leon with a frown. He lifts a hand, but stops with his fingers just a few scant inches from Leon’s brow. They hover there as Percival asks, “You alright?”

Leon belatedly remembers all the blood. He grins and nods. “Yeah.  Just a scratch. ” He reaches up his own hand to prod at the spot just past his hairline where the bolt of a crossbow had managed to barely graze him. (Luck has certainly been with him this day; had the man with the crossbow been a better aim, he’d have killed Leon for sure.)  Percival’s fingers trail after his, probing just as gently. The wound is matted with blood and his own hair, but it feels as if the bleeding has stopped. “Head wounds, you know.” He says by way of explanation.

Percival laughs gruffly and nods.  He smoothes his fingers out over Leon’s head, sliding them back to cup his hand around the back of Leon’s skull and gives a slight shake. “Yeah.  They bleed like anything.” His fingers press in again, just for a moment, before he lets his arm drop away.

Leon doesn’t know what to make of the gaze that’s fixed on him – though it’s easier, safer just to equate these emotions with coming down from the heat and frenzy of battle - so he just nods again and then says, “Come on. We need to find the rest of the patrol.  Make sure they got the Queen away safely.”

They start to walk, shoulder-to-shoulder, along the road towards Camelot.

“Think this was a planned attack, or just some criminals looking for an easy target?”

Leon glances as the bodies they pass – marking the spot so that they can come and retrieve the two dead Camelot guards for proper burial – and shakes his head. “They’re not well enough equipped to have been sponsored by any of Camelot’s enemies.  And they made no real effort to go after the Queen. Only the wagons. They wanted plunder, not prisoners.”

Guinevere had been on horseback, instead of in one of the two caravan wagons, riding between a formation of four of Leon’s best Knights. They’re the men he ordered to get her and the wagons to safety while he and Percival and the two guards held off their attackers.

“Thieves then,” Percival agrees. “Though they were organized.”

“Probably been picking off caravans and travelers along this route for some time.” Leon stops a moment when a sound catches his ear. Percival pauses just on his heels.

“What is it?”

Leon smiles even as he feels a sudden rush of exhaustion sweep over him. “Our horses.” He points to where he can just see the mounts are milling a few dozen yards down the road.  Leon knows that as Knight’s steeds they’re trained not to flee from combat and to ground-tie when their riders have dismounted, but he’s still relieved as hell to see that they’ve overcome what must be their natural instincts and stuck around. “We won’t have to walk home.”

“Now that’s welcome news.” Percival says with a weary chuckle as they continue along the wagon-ruts of road.

“Where’s your sword?” Leon asks after a moment, realizing Percival didn’t stop to retrieve one.

Percival just shrugs, but there’s something oddly guilty in the way he does it. Like an errand boy being caught out by his master for skiving in his duties.   It makes something sharp and heavy settle in Leon’s belly, but he isn’t able to put a name to it.  He brushes it off though, because they’ve still got to catch up to the Queen and make sure she returns to Camelot safely.

~~~~~

The feeling returns a few weeks later.  They’re on a routine training patrol, Leon, Percival and four other newly made Knights. This time the men that come charging through the trees are definitely well-equipped and well-trained.  They may not be wearing the colors or carrying the banners of another Kingdom, but there’s no question that they are merely disguised – and poorly – as ruffians and mercenaries. There are ten, to Leon’s six, and they split off, one to a man, leaving two pairs who seem well-suited to fighting together.

Leon engages the first set of two, leaving Percival the second pair, but soon enough he and Percival end up back-to-back, holding off all four of the enemy in a kind of odd tangle of swords and shields and the occasional swing of a mace. 

Taking a sword blow from one man against his shield, Leon manages to get underneath the guard of a second and drives the point of his blade into the man’s gut.  The man goes down to a knee and Leon knows he won’t be getting up.   There’s another impact against his shield and he’s got a split second before his opponent recovers enough to try another attack so Leon uses that opportunity to check on his men.   All look to be holding their own, to his great relief.

Eyes back on the soldier he’s squared off with, Leon steps back trying to entice the man into making a move. He’s just about to try a feint, to draw the man into opening his flank, when a shield comes hurtling past his head and strikes his opponent flat in the face.  Both the shield and his opponent topple.

“What the hell?” Leon blurts, pivoting to see that Percival is now shield-less and is standing over a body. His shoulders are heaving and his sword is red to the hilt.  Leon nods grimly.  A bit of an unorthodox maneuver, throwing a shield, but certainly effective! That leaves the final man of the four, the one with the chain mace, so Leon steps forward to engage him.

And then Percival throws down his sword and charges forward like a bear or a goring bull and just rushes the man who is swinging a mace at his chest.   The head of the mace connects against Percival’s chainmail, its points catching in the links, but the blow barely stutters his momentum and the well-trained soldier has a moment enough to look surprised – eyes flashing wide - before Percival crushes him up in a horrible grip and twists his body like it’s nothing more than tree-branches being broken for the camp fire.

Leon gapes at Percival, but can’t do more than that for the moment as the man who took the shield to the face is staggering to his feet, steps wobbling and sword held unsteadily.  Leon catches him easily under the arm with a firm thrust and he knows he pierces the man’s heart when he drops sudden, and limp, like a toppled sack of grain.

He looks around again, eyes automatically finding the places where combat still occurs. Luckily it seems his men have remembered their training and while he spots an injury or two, all are still standing and those that have defeated their opponents have moved in to assist those who are still fighting.  It’s clear that the skirmish will be over soon so he doesn’t feel at all guilty when he turns back to Percival, lunges towards him and bites out, “What the hell was that?”

Percival, who is currently occupied with trying to pull the mace head from where it’s practically embedded into the front of his chain shirt, looks up at him and frowns. “What?” Then he grins, “Oh, the shield?” He laughs and while it’s a hearty sound, his eyes are blank and empty in an odd and disconcerting way. “I dunno, I just thought it might distract him.”

“Not _that_ ,” Leon snipes, feeling that weird knot of something cold and jagged clawing in his belly, “what you did to that last man. You threw down your sword, Percival.” 

He sees Percival’s face cloud a moment, and then his eyes glance past Leon, and he just drops his chin like a chastened trainee. “You’re right, Sir Leon. That was a mistake.”

Leon frowns at the reaction at first, but then realizes they have an audience.  He looks over his shoulder to see his newest Knights closing in on them, looking between the two like this is some kind of lesson on the training grounds.  It’s not the time to ask further, to delve into what’s really going on with Percival.  Leon just nods curtly.

“You’re correct, Sir Percival. You should never assume combat is over.” He turns, straightens and makes the lesson out of it that they’ve inferred. “I hope you all heard that,” Leon calls out. “Never fall prey to the assumption that it’s safe to put down arms until you’re sure that all your enemies are dead or incapacitated.”

There are nods all around, but Leon knows that these young – so young – men are just now starting to feel that post-battle rush and that sooner than later they’ll be boisterous and all-but-impossible to calm. The quicker he gets them back to the city, perhaps to a tavern, where they can find diversion – drink, or gambling or companionship – to settle them, the better.  The lessons-learned from this bout of combat will still be waiting on the morrow.

“Alright you lot,” Leon chides, “let’s get a look at who we’re dealing with here.” He instructs the men in what to look for when they search the bodies.  

They find a few tell-tale effects – some coins, a ceremonial dagger, a leather pouch with a hand-tooled insignia – that point to the ‘mercenaries’ having come from Alined’s Kingdom.  That’s troubling enough news that it puts all thoughts of Percival’s odd behavior out of Leon’s mind for some weeks to come.

 ~~~~~~

It rears its ugly head again a few weeks later, in the tavern of all places. 

Alined’s subterfuge with the mercenaries ended up exposing an even greater treachery when the King, a supposed ally, made a desperate bid for what he must’ve perceived as a weakened (Kingless) Camelot.   He brought an army to the rolling fields outside the city and called for the Queen to surrender.

He, as most of their enemies have done lately, clearly underestimated the Queen and the loyalty her people feel, and the strength of Camelot’s forces.  Forces which were better prepared, better numbered and better trained than Alined’s. They routed Alined’s weaker army in only a few short days, driving them from Camelot lands, while sustaining minimal losses.

It was, at last, a conflict that ended with cause for celebration.

Leon remembers, all too well, how different their last victory felt.  They’d withdrawn from the battlefield at Camlann with the Saxons defeated, and Camelot victorious, but they were not at all triumphant.

Tonight, though, the Rising Sun is packed full with Camelot men: Knights and soldiers and guards who all rallied to defend the city.  There are drinks being hoisted: to the fallen, to their victory and eventually to anything that can even remotely be celebrated.

Leon makes his own toast, to the Queen of course, and partakes in his fair share. 

It’s not long before he’s pleasantly drunk; enough that he’ll be stumbling back to the castle for sure, and he’s deciding that maybe he should do just that - meander back to his quarters - when one of the drunken fools around them starts a brawl.  It’s unclear what words or actions might’ve sparked it, but there’s enough contained energy in the room that it gets out of hand rather quickly.

Luckily it’s a hearty, jolly sort of brouhaha that’s almost as revelrous as the drinking and singing that were going on moments before.  True a few fists are flying, and crockery is winging through the air, but there’s much more in the way of wrestling and good-natured sparring going on than actual fighting.

Leon gets a few good swings in when it’s called for, gets walloped across the back of the head by a flying mug and takes an errant elbow to the eye, and finally decides – as First Knight and, currently, the military leader of Camelot – that he should probably make an attempt to restore order.

His shouts of, “Hold! Steady on! That’s enough, men! Hold!” echo through the space.  These are men battle-trained to respond to his orders, and slowly instinct manages to overcome drunken enthusiasm.  It takes time for the ripple of calm to spread through the fray, but soon enough the pockets of quiet grow and Leon sees many a face eyeing him abashedly (or with an absent, sotted sort of amusement, which is close enough in Leon’s mind). 

Unfortunately it seems that Percival, of all people, isn’t inclined to heed his orders.

“Percival,” he barks out with a laugh, managing not to slur, trying to draw Percival away from the brawlers. “Sir Percival, you’ve had your fun.”

He’s ignored and Percival pushes back into the fray. Leon tracks him not by his height, or even keeping sight of him, but instead by the bodies that tumble and go sprawling across the floor.  Leon recognizes that Percival is – at least for now – fighting without intent to do _real_ harm. But he worries for the moment that will change.  This was supposed to be a night of celebration and camaraderie. He doesn’t need men getting injured worse in the tavern than on the battlefield.

Percival, through his own sheer force, manages to make it across the crowded tavern with no less than three men hanging off of him trying to drag him down, and then he turns and roars out a challenge.  The men who respond to it – mostly those that are far too deep in their cups to do any real damage - holler back and charge in in groups of two and three.

Leon watches for a moment, wincing on behalf of those that Percival puts down harder than the others, and finally decides – when Percival bellows for more yet again – that he’s has had enough.

Leon will be lucky to see out of his left eye by morning, and his head is already ringing (he knows there’ll be a lump rising soon enough). The five or six pints he had aren’t enough of a soporific to keep the pain completely at bay (and his growing concern seems to be doing its ample best to negate their effects completely).

“Percival!” He tries again, shouting to be heard across the bawdy din. 

Either Percival can’t hear him, or he’s still deliberately ignoring him.  He watches for another moment, as yet more and more men seem to be drawn to the challenge of trying to take Percival down.   The mood in the tavern darkens, and Leon can sense that the men around him are starting to see Percival as a genuine threat.

A young Knight, Sir Kennit, (who, just two days earlier, Percival had hauled bodily away from an enemy Knight trying to run him down on horseback, saving the young man’s life) takes a hard spill to the floor under the force of one of Percival’s blows. His head knocks with an audible thunk on the ground and he tries, for just a moment, to sit up and then slumps to the scuffed hardwood, unconscious.

“C’mon,” Leon nods to a few of the more sober men – those that avoided most of the brawling – and nods his head towards Percival. “We’ve got to get him out of here before he hurts someone.”  Though, looking down at Sir Kennit, who’s out cold and being dragged to the door by some of his companions, it’s a bit too late for that.

Somehow, though it’s all a bit of a blur to Leon, they manage to get Percival outside.  They find themselves outside though, and Leon’s got one of Percival’s arms wrenched behind his back – which earned him a wicked elbow to the ribs – and a hand fisted in the collar of Percival’s sleeveless tunic.  He dismisses the rest of the Knights then, trusting himself to handle this on his own.

He tightens his grip on Percival’s forearm and has to put his heels into the dirt to drag him further into the street. “Dammit, Percival, what’s gotten into you?”

Percival twists his head in an awkward angle to look back and down at him. “I was just having some fun, Sir Leon.” And the way he says ‘Sir’ is clipped and scornful.  A stab of genuine hurt lances through Leon’s heart at the tone of it.

Leon shoves him away, vaguely in the direction of the castle. “Go on, sleep it off.” He instructs, not entirely unkindly.

Percival gives a mocking half-bow. “Of course, Sire.”

Leon jerks back at the honorific; his jaw drops.

Even Percival seems to come back to himself, realizing what he’s just said.  He looks at Leon, gaze going wide and soft for just a moment. “I…,” he starts, but nothing follows.

Swallowing down words that are clawing at his throat to get out, Leon just gestures again with a weary flip of his arm. “Just… go, Percival.”

Percival’s eyes and head drop and he turns and trudges with heavy, dragging step down the street.  Leon stares after him until he’s lost to a bend in the road. 

Wearier than he remembers being in quite some time, Leon knows that as much as he wants to chase Percival down, demand answers from him, now is not the time.

~~~~~

It comes to a head the very next day on the training field.  

Rain is sheeting down, footing a slick, muddy mess and Leon is surrounded by Knights who can barely stand upright. When he calls them to muster they can’t even manage proper formation.

Leon knows the men are muttering hateful things about him. Cursing him for calling a full training session after a night of drunken debauchery, and in such awful weather besides.

Leon doesn’t blame them; his own head is pounding like war drums between his ears and his whole body aches from hits he didn’t even realize he took in the brawl.  One eye is ringed in purple – although thankfully not swollen shut as he’d feared – and there’s a sizeable lump on the back of his head that’s tender to the touch.  The worst is his ribs; a red-purple bruise covers a palm sized area of his abdomen – one rib likely cracked – from Percival’s vicious elbow.

It’s possibly a bit petty of him to call for training today.  He suspects that - to a man – all of his Knights feel as bad, or worse, than he does.  But he won’t let them rest on their laurels.  Since leadership of the forces of Camelot fell to him nearly a year ago, he’s done his damnedest to keep the men ready to defend their Queen.  They were victorious over Alined, but he’s Leon knows that there are others: greedy, avaricious men who will continue to see Camelot as ripe for the plucking.  Alined’s own words still echo in his ears, “How can a worthless servant know what it is to rule a Kingdom?  You are a weak to let this girl, probably no better than Pendragon’s whore, lead you.”   They were the last words he spoke before Leon took his head from his shoulders with one great swing.

So, despite knowing that it’s going to make his headache tenfold worse, he still manages a fairly authoritative shout. “Alright, men. Let this be a lesson to you all.  First, when you’re ordered to stand down from a fight, the response is not to toss a flagon of ale at your commander’s head!”

That earns him a few chuckles.

“Secondly, we need to remember that battle can come to us at any time.  We must always stand ready to defend Camelot, the Queen and her people.   Even,” he grins just a tad viciously, “on a pissing, miserable morning when we’ve stayed at the tavern too long the night before.  To drive that point home, we’re doing light sword drills today.”

That, on the other hand, results in nothing but groans and more grumbling.

Still, he puts them through their paces; an hour of steady sword maneuvers followed by one-on-one sparring.   It’s actually quite a bit less than standard training exercises, but Leon watches their clumsy swings and lazy blocking and knows he’s not going to get more out of them than that. 

They’re wet, muddy and far more miserable than the weather when he finally calls a halt. Which is pretty much what he was after.

“I think,” he has to shout to be heard above the thrumming of the rain, “that you’ve probably learned your lesson.  Although if anyone wants to stay out here with me and discuss it further you’re more than welcome.” He lifts his sword invitingly.

Even the most senior of Knights hasten from the field.  Leon is about to follow their example, it really is awful out and he’s soaked to the skin, when he spies Percival making his way over to the target dummy. 

“Percival?” he calls out, testing the mood between them. He doesn’t know how much Percival remembers from the night before. He certainly wishes his own memory were less than reliable.  “Enjoying the weather, are you?”

Percival only grins at him, in that blank, yet darkened expression that seems to have replaced his normally affable, placid mien.

“Care to go?” Percival rejoins, lifting his sword.

Leon hesitates.  He doesn’t know what to do about whatever’s gotten into Percival lately, and with everything that’s been going on (he’d have to say that war with a neighboring kingdom is at least a good excuse) he hasn’t managed the time to take him aside to see what he can do to help his friend.  During the battle with Alined’s army Percival acted the flawless Knight. He led the vanguard that swept through Alined’s ranks like a wave smashing through a barrier of soft sand, instead of breaking over rock.  He fought harder and longer and with more ferocity than any man on the field.

Watching him then, Leon had started to think, to hope, that whatever troubled Percival, did so no more. Until the brawl in the tavern, when he realized that Percival just wouldn’t stop fighting, wouldn’t stop looking for someone who might challenge him, who might actually stand a chance to take him down.

That’s what he wants from Leon right now and Leon knows it.  He’s just not sure if giving it to him is the right decision to make.

When Leon’s hesitation goes on too long, Percival’s face hardens, and even that darkly intense light starts to dim in his eyes. He expects to be denied.

“Fine,” Leon says instead. “Only let us move to better ground, my friend.”  He laughs – though it’s a hollow sound - as he gestures for Percival to lead to the more private, royal training yard.  It’s only slightly more sheltered from the wind and driving rain, but at least the ground hasn’t been trampled to a sodden muck by dozens of boots.

They start out normally enough, tapping swords in familiar cadences. Leon attempts a strike and Percival blocks it easily with just a turn of his wrist.  Percival very obviously betrays a counter thrust that Leon neatly parries.

For a moment, Leon starts to hope again that this is what Percival needed; some time alone with a friend. A little sparring to get the blood up.  He starts to toy with the idea that perhaps he’ll suggest they steal some ale from the kitchens after they’re done, find some place quiet and private to have that talk.

His hopes, however, are dashed when his next easy riposte is batted away with a harsh, downward stroke that nearly knocks Leon’s sword from his hand.  “Percival,” he barks out, drawing his sword arm back.  The sting of the blow tingles up Leon’s arm and he’d stop to shake it out if Percival weren’t already advancing on him.

“Too much for you, Sir Leon?” Percival asks, and though he’s still grinning, that mad fools sort of grin, there’s nothing friendly in his tone.

“Fine,” Leon bites out as anger – at Percival, at himself, at this whole damn situation – gets the better of him, “Let’s do this.” He charges forward in earnest and the speed of his attack puts Percival on the defensive. They trade swift parries, deflect each other’s angry thrusts and jabs with hurried blocks and rough counters. Control wrests from one to the other and back again as they slide and falter over the sodden ground. 

Leon gets a lucky cut; the tip of his blade catches Percival’s armor-protected chest but slips up the slickened chain and grazes Percival’s bare shoulder.  The blood that wells up in its’ wake is quickly washed down Percival’s bicep in pinked rivulets that drip off his elbow. 

It’s a shallow slice, barely a scratch but Percival bellows at it, frenzied now – gone into a berserker rage - and Leon knows he’s in real trouble.  He does the only thing he can think of and steps _closer_ , sidling into reach of Percival’s hands to grapple and shoulder at the bigger man. It’s almost as dangerous (he’s seen what Percival can do with those bare arms) but at least it’s too close together to bring their blades into play.

Leon only owes it to the slick footing that he manages to knock Percival off his feet. His heel hooks around Percival’s calf and Percival tries to catch himself, but Leon arcs back from his grabbing hand, and Percvial topples back and then lands with an ‘oof’ and a splash.  Leon stands over him, panting as he watches Percival reach out and scrabble at muck and grass, trying to reach the hilt of his sword. He raises his blade high with a shout of his own and is just about to bring it slashing down towards Percival’s prone form when he sees the look on Percival’s face. 

Like he’s waiting for it. 

Like he wants Leon to follow through.

His own blood-haze clearing and replaced with an abrupt, cold panic, Leon scrambles back, his boots slipping and barely finding purchase beneath him as he puts some distance between them.

“Come on!” Percival urges from where he’s sprawled, his voice guttural and taunting. “C’mon, Sir Leon, finish it.”

Leon blinks moisture out of his eyes – rain and probably more than that - stares down at his friend, and finally realizes what’s going on. His sword drops from suddenly nerveless fingers and he gives a low, broken groan. “No, Percival. No.”

Percival slaps his hand to the mud with a growl of frustration and then clambers to his feet.  He glares at Leon for a long moment, silent and narrow-eyed, then starts to stalk past.

“Dammit, Percival, stop! Stop trying to get yourself killed!” Leon grabs Percival’s arm, digging his fingers into the thick muscle when Percival tries to jerk away from him.  Without sleeves, Percival’s skin is slick and Leon practically has to drive his blunt nails into flesh to keep his hold. 

It stops him, at least, and Percival spins to glare down at Leon again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go.”

“No!” Leon shouts, going hoarse with the desperation of it. “No I can’t, Percival. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.  You can’t keep trying to chase down your own death.”

This time Percival does break free of Leon’s hold, yanking his arm back hard enough that it almost throws Leon off balance, and he can feel as his nails cut furrows through skin. “That’s all there is for me!” Percival roars. “That’s all I have left.”

Leon reaches out and grabs at his arm again. “No.” He shakes his head, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing.  “Don’t you know –,” Leon’s voice cracks, breaks and he has to swallow down something that might be a sob or a scream.  Whatever it is, it fights its way back out on a shout, and he shakes hard at the arm he’s clinging to so tight. “Don’t you know that _you’re_ all _I_ have left?” he rasps. “It’s… it’s just you and me, Percival.  Just us. And I can’t lose you too.”

He clasps his free hand on Percival’s other shoulder and looks up into his eyes. “I can’t.”

Percival’s mouth thins into a firm line and for a moment Leon thinks he’s going to just pull away again. Then, just like that, all the fight seems to go out of him. His head bows and his whole body judders before going lax; he lets himself fall into Leon’s arms. “I’m sorry,” Leon both feels and hears mouthed into his neck. “I’m sorry, Leon… I didn’t think—,“  He takes a shuddering, gasping breath. “I can’t be alone, anymore.”

“You’re not alone, Percival.” Leon says firmly, holding Percival up.  “You’ve still got me.” He has to stagger back to the wall, Percival’s weight is almost slack in his arms, and Leon’s exhausted and aching and he needs the support so he won’t have to let go.   When he feels the press of his armor through the sodden gambeson, Leon lets himself fall back against the wall, hard enough that it nearly knocks the breath out of him, and brings Percival more tightly into his arms.

“But I’m losing you, aren’t I?” Percival says wearily, shifting so that the wall takes some of his weight and it’s not all on Leon, though he doesn’t move out of Leon’s hold of him. If anything, his movements bring them even closer.

“What do you mean?”

“Things are going to change further, Leon.  Gwen needs you now more than ever.  And I’d be stupid not to see where that’s headed.  And then… that’ll be it.  You’ll have her, and the Kingdom to look after.”

“Percival,” Leon protests hotly, “even if that were to happen, do you think I’d give up our friendship for anything?  We’re the last of a kind, you and I and now, more than ever, I need you.  What is it that makes you feel so alone?”

And then Percival’s mouth finds his, soft and tentative and rain-slick, and that’s when Leon understands fully, finally, what Percival has lost and so desperately needs.    

It isn’t new to Leon, things like this between men. He’s shared bedrolls with other Knights, companionship and warmth and relief on long, lonely patrols.   He’s had his hand down more than one pair of breeches and the mouths he’s felt around his cock haven’t all been those of women. But this is… this is such a very different thing than that.

Because this isn’t about scratching an itch, or slaking some base need or bleeding off the strain, tension, or even joy of battle.  This isn’t about the physicality at all, but the emotional bond between them. Percival may be expressing it with his mouth, his body, but Leon knows that he’s saying so much more.

It is the weight of that truth, the solemnity that makes Leon goes still, and he knows the moment Percival feels it because his mouth drops away with a soft gasp.

“I’m sorry…,” Percival whispers, “that was –“

“No, Percival.” Leon interrupts, cupping his fingers hard around Percival’s jaw, thumb pushing his chin up. “It’s not that I don’t… or that I’ve never…,” Leon curses.  He’s never been one for putting his thoughts to words.  And while he could take action, could show Percival just what he means, he knows that there are things that need to be said. “I just never thought you looked at me like that.” He has to drop his gaze then, saying softly, “I knew how you felt about Gwaine.  I didn’t…”  He looks up again, imploring. “I didn’t want to try to replace him.”

Percival shakes his head. “You’re not a replacement, Leon. You’re my friend.” His face goes soft and his smile tender. “You’ve always had a place in my heart.”

Leon can hear both the truth and the lie in those words.  He knows Percival truly cares for him and that he means what he says sincerely.  But he’s also aware that he will never quite mean the same to Percival as Gwaine did.  The same way that he knows should Gwen decide to accept him as her consort he’ll never be more than second in her affections. 

Leon is… perfectly content with that. Not the least because it still means he can be something to these people who he cares so deeply for.

He rubs a thumb over Percival’s lower lip and says, gruffly, “As you have, in mine.”

And that seems to be all that needs saying. 

Leon initiates the kiss this time, pressing his mouth to Percival’s perhaps a bit clumsily at first but Percival is quick to respond, meeting his lips eagerly, bringing their tongues into play.   Percival pushes him into the wall and his hands clench and grab uselessly at slippery armor before sliding up Leon’s arms and move to grip a shoulder and thread fingers through the ropey tangles of his sodden hair.  

A rivulet of icy rainwater trickles down from a dislodged strand of Leon’s hair to drip off the tip of his nose. It’s a shock of cold between the heat of their mouths.

Percival draws away with a laugh and the sound is light and airy in a way that Percival hasn’t sounded in a very long time. “Perhaps we should take this inside. Out of the rain?”

“I think that might be best.” Leon agrees with a semi-breathless nod. “Wouldn’t do to drown with our trousers around our ankles.”

Percival’s brows lift, but he chuckles again. Leon wonders if Percival didn’t expect that he’d take it that far. He just grins wickedly in response, claps Percival on the shoulder and gives him a little shove. “C’mon, gather up your sword and let’s get out of the rain.”  He follows his own advice, squelching through the grass to grab up his fallen weapon and then he gestures for Percival to precede him into the castle.

~~~~~~

There are still several Knights in the armory when Leon follows Percival in; they’re sitting on the benches while they clean up gear, laughing and joking.  The chatter goes silent when Leon enters the room (something he’s still not used to), but he gives a quick nod, inviting them to carry on and they do.    He glances, briefly, now and again, at Percival while he works himself out of his own armor.   He catches Percival shooting him similar, surreptitious looks and has to bite his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.

“Sir Percival?”

Sir Kennit stands in front of Percival.  There’s purpling all along his jaw from where Percival must’ve connected with a fist or an elbow in the tavern brawl the night before.

Percival stops working at the buckles of his bracer and looks up at Kennit.  “Sir Kennit. What can I do for you?”

Leon stars to stand.   If Kennit is upset about the injury and wants to confront Percival, Leon isn’t going to let that happen.  Not right now. He doesn’t want anything to happen that might put Percival back in that black mood.

Kennit swallows and then nods at Percival’s hands. “Just, uh… wondering if you needed some help, Sir?”

Percival looks rather pointedly at the bruising on Kennit’s face, grimaces slightly and then his gaze drops down at where he’s been fumbling with the strap for a few minutes and nods. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He smiles up at Kennit, a bit sheepishly. “The leather’s swollen. Hard to get at one-handed.”

With a great sigh of relief, Leon drops back down to the bench.  Apparently the fact that Percival saved his life means more than a concussion in a drunken melee to the young Knight.

Sir Elmore, a Knight Leon has known for quite years, sits down next to Leon with a sword and cloth. “Are you tied up in crown business today, Leon?”  He asks as he starts wiping down the crosspiece with care.

Leon shakes his head. “No, not today.  The Queen hasn’t got anything scheduled.” He plucks at the thickly padded gambeson that’s still soaked through.  "I think I’m just going to retire to my chambers, have a hot bath and catch up on some of the work that’s been piling up.” He says the latter just a hair louder, so that his words will carry to Percival.  He hopes Percival catches the meaning of them.

Elmore shakes his head and gives a sympathetic chuff of laughter. “Aww, poor bastard.  All those responsibilities.  I don’t suppose we’ll see you down at the tavern later then?”

Rolling his eyes Leon says quite firmly, “No, definitely not. And I should think the lot of you have had enough of taverns for the near future.”  A few of the other men chuckle and there are one or two hearty sounds of agreement from around the room.

Elmore claps him on the shoulder. “Never too much of a good thing, Leon.”

“Well just remember that come morning we’ll be making up for our shortened training session today.” Leon cautions.

That earns him a mock-grimace. “You’re a cruel man, Sir Leon.”

His armor removed and sword stowed, there’s nothing keeping Leon in the armory. He stands and looks over to see that Percival is still working on the bracers.  He meets Percival’s eye for just a moment, gives a quick, curt nod. Percival ducks his head, but Leon catches the grin on his profile.

He follows-up on his words to Ellmore and arranges with the first servant he passes to have a tub and hot water brought to his room.  Leon isn’t trying to think too far ahead to what’s likely to happen with Percival, but he wants to be ready and for there to be no reason for either of them to leave his room for the afternoon.  He also stops by the kitchens to load a tray with some bread, fruit and cheese and grabs a pitcher of water. 

When he gets to his chambers it’s to find that Camelot’s servants have worked fast. The tub has been rolled in and is already half-full with steaming water. 

“We’re almost ready, Sir Leon.” A serving girl called Maise tells him with a courtly bow.

“Thank you, Maise. You do fast work. My aching shoulders appreciate it.”  The girl smiles at his thanks, blushing prettily. She’s young, but a hard-worker and Gwen has made some mention about taking her on as a personal attendant.  Leon thinks it’s a good idea. She’s not allowed herself her own, dedicated, help since the girl Sifa.

When the room empties of servants and the tub is full, Leon finally shrugs out of the padded coat and his tunic.  He’s working on the laces of his trousers when there’s a knock at his door.

“Come in.” He calls, anticipation tightening a different kind of knot low in his belly.

Percival comes in and closes the door behind him, locking it.  He turns then, grinning at Leon. “Starting without me, I see,” he says with a soft laugh.

“I had to.  You still take too long to get out of your armor.” Leon replies with a laugh of his own, but then cuts it off with a hard press of his lips when he remembers that the person to tease Percival about that had been Gwaine.  Luckily, Percival doesn’t seem to mind the memory. He just chuckles again and shakes his head.

“Still bigger than you.” He tugs the ties of his sleeveless gambeson loose. “Speaking of,” he inclines his head to the steaming tub, “think we can both fit? I’ve got mud soaked into my small clothes and I’d kill to get cleaned up.”

Leon thinks that maybe the polite thing to do here would be to cede the bath to Percival first, but his body is already thrumming with anticipation.  They’ll manage in the tub, somehow. 

“Here,” he says, crossing the small space between them. He pushes the padded cloth from Percival’s shoulders and then lifts his tunic up and tugs it over his head. Both get tossed to the pile of Leon’s own discarded clothing. “Now you’re all caught up,” he explains.

That earns him a hot-eyed grin. Percival steps close, pressing their bodies together.  They're both, perhaps, a bit more battered and bruised than usual, but nothing that will stop this happening.  Percival’s skin is still clammy and cool where it touches Leon’s, but Leon just grabs at the first bare spots he can. He splays one hand over Percival’s ribs and curves the other around to the middle of his back. He draws Percival close for a kiss.

Percival’s mouth is just as eager as it was on the practice field, and perhaps a bit more knowing now that he’s sure of his welcome.

Leon feels fingers work between them, fumbling at laces – his or Percival’s, he’s not sure.  He breaks away from the kiss with a groan when knuckles brush against his cock and takes a half-step back. “C’mon. Let’s get in that tub before the water goes cold.”

Percival blinks at him a long moment and then nods. “Yeah,” he says.  His eyes are dark and he just watches Leon for a few moments while Leon finally manages to untangle his trousers and pushes them down his hips.

That greedy, hungry look on Percival’s face is quite flattering if a bit overwhelming.  “You should probably get in first.” Leon says to deflect it. 

When Percival just nods again but doesn’t make any moves towards the tub, Leon takes matters into his own hands.   He can feel the evidence of Percival’s arousal as he hurries to work at Percival’s trousers. He’s tempted to tease, stroke a little, but he knows how rough the wet, coarse cloth can be on sensitive skin so he just focuses on getting Percival undressed as fast as possible.    Percival finally starts moving to help and as soon as Leon has the ties loosened, Percival shoves the rest of his clothing down his hips and steps out of them. 

“C’mon,” Leon gets a hand around Percival’s cock, tugging at it playfully, “in the tub with you.”

“You’re making it a little difficult to get in there.” Percival complains, biting at his bottom lip. 

“Oh, am I?” Leon squeezes tighter, drags a thumb over the head. 

“If I fall over into the water, does that count?”  He puts his hands on Leon’s shoulders, presumably for balance.

Leon shows mercy and releases his hold. "There,  you're free to move." He gestures to the waiting water.

Percival steps into the tub and lowers himself into it. He spreads his legs wide, leaving room for Leon to settle between them. “This good?”

Leon takes a few moments of his own to stare at Percival.  He looks so at ease: his muscular arms curved around the edge of the tub, his chest bare and glistening. Percival has always been a friend - more than that, actually - and before this, Leon had never allowed himself to see him otherwise.  Now that he can, he certainly appreciates what he sees. 

“That’ll do.” Leon finally says and steps into the water carefully. 

It takes a bit of maneuvering – they’re almost of a height and both have long legs, and the tub isn’t made for sharing – but eventually they get settled.  Leon’s back is pressed tight to Percival’s chest and his arms rest along Percival’s thighs.  Their legs are bent, and Leon knows they won’t be able to stay too long like that.  

Leon had tossed a cloth into the tub, and a cake of soap, and he fishes them out and offers them to Percival.  “Oh, I’m to clean you off, am I?” Percival asks, but he takes both and works up a lather in the cloth.  He scrubs at Leon’s back, his own chest at both of their arms, hands the cloth back to Leon so he can get their legs.  Between them they manage a fairly decent scrubbing and Percival uses both hands to scoop up great handfuls to rinse them both off.   When they’re as clean as they can manage in the confined space, Leon settles back into Percival’s arms.

He can feel the hard line of Percival’s cock pressed against his lower back.  Every time he shifts against it, Percival lets out soft little gasps and grunts.  The warm water had relaxed Leon a bit, at first, but the mutual scrubbing and now those noises, and the feel of Percival mouthing at his neck has him achingly hard again.  

Percival takes him in hand, wrapping his fingers around Leon’s cock in a sure, firm grip and Leon lets his head fall back on Percival’s shoulder. “I think,” Percival says in a low, grumbling tone right next to Leon’s ear, “that we’re probably both a bit too weary for serious fucking this time, especially in this bath, so I hope this is okay.”

Leon wants to protest - it’s something he’s never done with another man, but he _wants_ it with Percival  - but he also knows that Percival is right.  “This time,” Leon agrees. “But I’m holding you to that fucking next time.”

Percival bites at the skin behind Leon’s ear. “Next time. That’s a promise.” He works his hand easily up and down Leon’s cock, twisting just a little on each upstroke.  Between that and the warmth of the water and the heat of Percival’s body surrounding him Leon feels the arousal through his whole body.  It’s bliss like he’s never known.  “Keep that up,” he warns, the words thick on his sluggish tongue, “and I won’t last long.”

“You’re not meant to, _this time_.” Percival explains, stroking faster and squeezing harder. He reaches his free hand down to cup Leon’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm.  When the pads of two fingers start to stroke in that spot behind them, just start to tease further back, Leon can’t help but thrust up into Percival’s fist.  His hips jerk once, twice and then he comes with a shuddering gasp.

He goes lax in Percival’s arms. “I feel,” he says once he gets his breath back, “that I may have forever sullied my reputation in your eyes.”

“No,” Percival assures him. “It’s quite flattering to know that I can make you spend like a green recruit during his first visit to a brothel.”

“Bastard.” Leon half-heartedly elbows at whatever part of Percival is in range.

“And if words aren’t reassurance enough,” he slides his cock against Leon’s back, “perhaps _that_ will tell you just how much watching you, making you lose control like that, works for me.”

“Is that enough?” Leon wonders, kneading his hands into Percival’s thighs, feeling the tension in them with each thrust. “Can you come like that?”

Percival rolls his hips a few more time experimentally.  Finally he lets out a sigh and admits, “No, I don’t think so.  Here.” Before Leon can protest, Percival manages to lift himself up and get his feet under him. Water sloshes over the rim of the tub as he somehow finds the room to stand up fully. 

Leon pushes to the other side of the tub and turns around.  Percival is standing over him.

“Just let me—“ Percival starts to say.

“No, wait.” Leon interrupts.  He puts his hands back on Percival’s thighs and slides them up to his hips.  He shifts up to his knees. The move puts his face level with Percival’s cock.  “Let _me_.” He looks up and sees Percival gaping down at him in wide-eyed wonderment.

“Are you sure?”

Leon smirks. “As long as you can manage to stay on your feet.”

“Oh, I’ll manage.” Percival replies, sounding as fervent as Leon’s ever heard him. 

Leon reaches up to take one of Percival’s hands and tugs it over to his own head, inviting him to hold on. “Just don’t fall on me.”

Percival just makes a noise that Leon takes as amusement or agreement or some combination of the two.

This is another of those things Leon has never done, but he’s had his own cock sucked enough that he figures he’ll manage to do alright.  He takes hold of Percival in one hand and guides the tip into his mouth.  The bath-water has washed away much, but Leon still tastes skin and the slight tang of salt. He lips at the head, and tongues at the slit, letting the noises Percival makes, and the way his hands tighten and clench in Leon’s hair lead him.

Leon takes in more, letting his mouth accustom to the stretch, adjusting to the feel against the back of his tongue and the roof of his mouth.   Above him Percival is making noises that are encouraging Leon’s own cock to stir again.  He takes Percival as deep as he can, manages to swallow around him and then draws back.   Leon can feel the tension in Percival’s fingers, like he’s holding back from just pushing his cock into Leon’s mouth. 

Leon knows the feeling well.

He wants Percival to lose control.  He wants Percival to be able to release all of the frustration and rage and sadness Leon knows he’s been carrying with him.  He redoubles his efforts, wrapping fingers tight around the base and bobbing his head forward and back in a steadily increasing pace, sucking on each backstroke.

The hands on his head tighten and the thigh Leon is gripping trembles.  He tugs at it, inviting Percival to give in to the urge to thrust.  Percival gives a broken sounding groan and does.

Leon’s lips kiss his own fist with every thrust and he concentrates on just giving Percival a tight, hot space to drive into.  Then the hands pull and fist urgently, and Percival pushes him away just as he starts to come.  The first spatter hits Leon’s chin and the rest sprays down his chest. 

Percival goes a bit wobbly then, and Leon grabs at his hips to try to steady him.  “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Percival answers after a few panting breaths.  “Yeah. I’m really well.”  He looks down at Leon, expression a bit soppish. “You?”

Leon takes a hand away from supporting Percival to wipe at his chin and he laughs. “I’m good.” He shifts, feeling the ache from kneeling so long. “Though my knees aren’t going to thank me for this.” He pushes at Percival’s leg. “C’mon, get out of the tub.” 

Percival has to use Leon’s shoulder for stability, but he eventually manages to swing a leg over the edge of the wooden tub (thought he drags the top of one foot against the edge and curses softly).  

Leon takes a moment to splash some of the tepid water over his chest and then he climbs out as well. His knees do twinge, but he considers the pain well worth it.  Percival has collapsed across Leon’s bed and is muttering something that Leon can’t understand, but it sounds rather complimentary.

He looks loose and at ease and thought Leon knows that there are cares and obligations to be dealt with, the concerns of the Kingdom waiting just outside his locked door, for now they can be ignored.   There’s food and drink, and no reason for them to leave the room at least for tonight.

Fitting on the bed together is much easier than the tub and the promised ‘next time’ is an eagerly welcome inevitability.

~~~~~~

Later, in the mess of tangled bedcovers, sweat-damp and a little sticky, Leon lets himself be held in the loose curl and flex of Percival’s arms.  He’d never… well, he’d always thought it would make him feel somehow less a man, to be cradled like this in bed, to not be the one with the physical power.  He was clearly wrong, because this feels as right as anything could. 

Percival’s fingers drag through his hair, carding the mussed strands with intent like he’s pulling through unspun wool and for a moment Leon wonders if he’s thinking of Gwaine.   Then he chastises himself for being so foolish.  Jealous of a dead man. Jealous of a friend.  He _hopes_ that Percival can think of Gwaine at a time like this.  

“The Queen will need one of us,” Percival says quietly, a short time later, harkening back to their earlier conversation in the courtyard.

Leon can only agree. It’s something he’d given quite a bit of thought to. Is surprised it hasn’t happened already.  “Yes, I imagine she will. It will strengthen her position, her hold on the throne, if nothing else.” 

They both know that Guinevere will make whatever sacrifices that need to be made in order to keep Camelot strong.  She’s had a number of suitors from various lands and neighboring kingdoms broach the subject already and there will certainly be more to come.  They want what she has: power over a vast and prosperous kingdom.  They see her as vulnerable, weak and ripe for the plucking.   A Queen in name only and needing a man, a ‘true’ King, to take control.

They do not know Guinevere. 

“We’ve discussed it,” Leon admits and then has to amend, “Well, I brought it up.” He has to clear his throat to get the next part out. “A Knight Consort would be respectable and certainly send a clear message that she needs no one to step in and take over.”  Even thinking about the conversation now leaves Leon’s cheeks and the back of his neck heated and flushed.  Luckily, Guinevere had been calm and sensible – as she usually is about these sorts of things - and merely nodded her agreement. 

“It should be you, then.” Percival says and Leon can feel how he’s smiling.

He shrugs. “It should be whoever Guinevere decides. But, you’re younger.”  Oddly, they both know it will come down to one of them.  There are dozens of Knights, loyal and brave and trustworthy who serve the Queen with true dedication and respect, but only Leon and Percival are part of…   well, part of something that began many years ago in the abandoned ruins of a castle around an old stone table.

“I may be younger, but you’ve known her longer.  You’re her oldest friend, Leon. And I know you care for her a great deal.”

Leon nods. It’s true. He has many strong, rather complex feelings for their Queen.  “I do, very much.”

“And I know she cares for you as well.  And each day that grows into something more.”

Leon can’t disagree. There is no question to the fact that he will always be there for Gwen, in whatever capacity she needs him.  It’s a promise he’d given once before and has reiterated since her coronation.

He wants to explain that to Percival but instead finds his thoughts meandering in a different direction. “You know we played together, Gwen and I, when we were but children?  Her mother worked as a maid in my family’s household.” He sighs, but it’s a happy exhale, full of fondness for memories he hasn’t stirred in a very long time. “Little Gwen was a champion at hiding and finding.  I could spend hours seeking her out in just the space of four rooms, yet she’d have me sussed out in a matter of minutes.  For a few years no one seemed to care that we were a commoner’s daughter and a noble’s son. Then, I think we got old enough that it suddenly mattered again, and Gwen stopped coming along with her mother.”

“See, it would make sense for it to be you that she chooses. “ Percival gives an amused snort. “It’s almost like a minstrel’s tale: the pair of sticky-fingered, rough-kneed urchins who somehow grow up to rule a kingdom together.”

Leon drives an elbow into Percival’s ribs.

Percival grunts and responds by trapping Leon’s arm at his side and nipping at the point of his shoulder.  Then he goes still and voices the root of this entire discussion.  “Will that be it for us, then?”

He sounds sad, like he’s already decided it’s over.

Leon can only shrug. “I think Guinevere will want children.  She deserves them. She’ll be an excellent mother.” He knows that’s not really an answer.   So he tries again. “But she’s a generous woman with plenty of room in her heart and an understanding of what it means to… need someone. To care for someone who has a place in their heart that belongs to someone else.”  There’s something unspoken there – something neither he, nor anyone have ever given voice to – about their fallen King and his absent manservant.

“Yeah,” Percival agrees, the tone in his voice just a bit more mollified. “Yeah.”

This is no time or place for fey declarations and youthful promises; they are both too old, too calloused for anything of the sort, but Leon still quietly says, “Just, tell me that no matter what happens, you won’t… try to leave me again.  We are all that each other have, Percival.”

“Couldn’t do that, now could I?” Percival laughs, though Leon hears so much more in the sound. “Someone’s gonna have to look after you and Gwen… You’ll need someone to stick around and keep an eye on those kids.  Gods, can you imagine the tangled mess of hair they’re likely to have?” 

Leon doesn’t answer, though he chuckles softly, and he pulls Percival’s arms tighter around him.  Reading his mood, Percival holds him close.

That day will come. Likely sooner than later, if Leon knows the Queen (and he does, more and more each day). Until then, though, he and Percival have each other and he’ll be whatever he can for Percival: friend, lover, comrade, even adversary if it's what Percival needs.  He won't let Percival give up. He won't let him be alone again.


End file.
